Unseen and Unheard
by Otaku Tess
Summary: Hiatus. Johnlock. Semi-established relationship. Angst. John's blog entries, Sherlock reads them as he takes down Moriarty's web. Sorry for the formatting issues. I do not know how to get this crappy site to accept my paragraph breaks, and I am sick of fixing them just to have it delete them.


**Unseen and Unheard**

_By: Love Of Books and Otaku Tess_

A 'Sherlock' Fan Fiction

_Goodbye, John." Sherlock looked down at John, and his heart pounded as he realized this really was the only way to save the man he loved, even if that love remain unrequited. He tough back to all the times John had come close to affection, to love, and quickly drew back into heterosexuality._

_Sherlock wondered if maybe it was better if he and John had never entered a pseudo relationship. because with a few dates here and there and some oral sex, John had shown him what their relationship /could/ be, but never really was. And with a firm belief that John was better off this way, solidly straight and /alive/, he stepped onto the ledge, and jumped._

Sherlock was crouched down underneath his desk of his motel room table. The assassin had just walked in. Tall, with a heavy built, judging by the sounds of his boot steps. The sound of the safety going off on the gun made him rise steadily of the balls of his feet, and when he heard the gun cock he stood up and aimed his pistol at the man. "I want information." Sherlock said coolly, "and you are going to give it to me."

He smirked and reached for a small plug down into his shirt collar and extracted a small white pill. "I'd rather die than face him in failure," the man remarked calmly in a thick Eastern-European accent. Before Sherlock could protest, the man took the pill and bit down on in. Sherlock raced over as the man collapsed, but it was too late. His first lead into Moriarty's web of crime was dead.

-

**July 15, 2012** _(SECURITY SETTING: Visible to Ella Thompson)_

I finished packing up Sherlock's things today. Mrs Hudson took it all to be donated, though I think she may have thrown some of it away without telling me. I kept his skull, his violin, and his old mobile.

The number's already been recycled, though.

Dunno why I care.

Sherlock was in a nondescript inn somewhere in southern Asia. He had just taken down the head of the Hong-Kong crime ring using only a ballpoint pen laced with some rattlesnake venom. Without their leader, they would soon fall apart.

Sherlock managed to log onto the web, and using a few hacking tricks got into John's blog. He smiled as he read the latest entry. He could almost hear John's voice in his head as he read it, what vowels he would leave loose, what syllables he would emphasize.

His violin, skull, mobile. His most prize possessions.

Of course John would keep them... Sherlock Holmes sat down in the nondescript bed of the nondescript inn, and stared out the window for hours.

**July 24th, 2012:** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

His bed hasn't smelled like him for weeks.

I don't know why I'm staying here. It's not like I can afford it.

Think I'll move out soon.

Sherlock was about to catch a train to Moscow. On that train he would find, incapacitate, and kill the leader of the sex-trafficking ring in Russia. He was still at the station. He found a few minutes to log onto John's blog again. This one had a firewall; he got through it in under a minute. His own personal best.

'**His bed hasn't smelled like him for weeks.' **He read, then smirked.

At least John had his bed, Sherlock had nothing of John's. He wished he had grabbed a jumper or shirt of the doctor's before he left; something that screamed John with its looks, smell, texture.

'**I don't know why I'm staying here. It's not like I can afford it.' **He frowned as he read that.

Sherlock had tried to contact Mycroft to get him to wire John some money, but the connection had failed and he had no other way of contacting his brother.

'**I think I'll move out soon.' **He had no idea what to make of that.

After a glass of scotch, he decided that of course, it's better for John that way. He needed to move out, move on. Keep life going. There was nothing left for him at 221B. Nothing except cold, angry, intimate memories of Sherlock. He logged off the computer quickly, checked to make sure he had put the silencer on the gun, and headed to the train.

**August 6th, 2012** _(PRIVACY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson)_

Found a little place on Park Ave. I'll be moving out of Baker Street on the 1st.

I really wanted to move in sooner, but they said they needed to get the current tenants out first. I wish they'd go already.

Being here has gotten really hard.

**August 8th, 2012** _(PRIVACY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

I found his cigarettes while I was packing. I was sure I knew all his hiding places... I guess, somehow, he keeps finding new ways to piss me off even when he's not here.

It was in the pocket of a coat an ex-girlfriend gave me. I hate the thing, I've never worn it, but I kept it for sentimental reasons.

Sentiment.

He was always good at exploiting that kind of thing.

The arse.

Sherlock glanced at the beautiful young girl lying on his bed. She was the wife of the Italian gangster he had just shot. She insisted on accompanying him back to his room and expressing her thanks, and he led her back silently. Once they got there, though, he told her to sleep on the bed. He'd take the floor. She came here to fuck him, and he ended up telling her about the man he loved, skipping some details, of course.

As she slept peacefully, free of her abusive husband, Sherlock logged into the blog. He read over the words, and felt his gut clenching. John, the only one still loyal to him, by the looks of the papers anyway, would not be at 221B when he got back.

If he got back. He laid out some money and a fake passport for the woman, shut down the computer, and went off to find his next lead.

**August 15th, 2012** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: Visible to Ella Thompson)_

I stayed at a hotel tonight. I just couldn't be at the flat.

Are you reading this Ella? I haven't slept at Baker Street for 4 days. I can't afford another night in a hotel, but I'm running out of people willing to put me up. I just can't do this anymore. Now what?

_**(1 Comment)**_

_**Ella Thompson**_

_I'll see you at your appointment tomorrow, John. We can talk about it then._

**September 1st, 2012**_ (SECURITY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

It's finally happened. It's permanent now.

I can't feel anything...

Sherlock was furious with that bitch Thomson. John didn't need to talk, John needed money, a place to stay, comfort. Not a fucking therapist charging him to pretend to care. He slammed the laptop shut so fast it cracked, and the German man tied to the chair flinched.

"Your wife, she has found another?" He asks through a mouthful of blood. Sherlock spins around, and comes face to face with the drug dealer. "That's none of your bloody business." He says tensely. The man gives Sherlock a wolfish grin, and Sherlock raises his fist.

**September 3, 2012 (13:34)**_ (SECURITY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson)_

All moved in at Park Ave.

**September 3rd, 2012 (15:23)**_ (SECURITY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson)_

I miss hind so muhch I don't know what too do. I keeop waking up and wonderingf where he si.

Ive lost peopl e in afghanistan, i;ve seen men die in front o f me, in my arms, and i culdn't do anything

for thewm... Good men. People who were my friends... I thought nothin g could be worse than

that... I was so so wrong... if i couls pick between bringing baxk every friens, comrade, aqyantence,

doesn't matter... 1000 lives lost on the battlefeild and having him back - i'd pick him - and i know

that's selfuish and i don't care... I swaer to god I would do it... I am so bloody lonely. I cant do this anymoree... i juts cant... nothing makes sense... everthing is arbitratry... and it doesn't make any differesnce at all...

Sherlock was offered a reward this time. Anything he desired.

He had rid the small Siberian town of a ruthless gang.

He had asked for one thing: He asked for time. He had spent that time reading John's blog. He was in tears by the end, and all he could think of was John. John in pain, John suffering, John hurt.

Sherlock made up his mind.

He asked for two things: Time, and a bag of cocaine. He had just snorted the last line of the intoxicating white powder when there was a tentative knock on the door.

He asked for another: This was hard. A boy. Eighteen. Blond. Blue eyes. Short.

Army-trained.

Sherlock had requested the boy be sent to his room. After a few second, the boy walked in. The boystepped forward carefully, shut his eyes tight, and pressed a hard kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock allowed it, before undressing the boy fast, not hearing his almost silent pleas. He tossed the boy face-down onto the pillow so that only his hair was visible. He leaned forward, about to take the boy, when his stomach turned.

He wasn't John.

John didn't have a freckle on his neck, John had broader shoulders, John was willing, and John didn't beg him to stop in an unfamiliar tongue. Feeling disgusted with himself, he gently tugged the boy up, and hugged him tight, whispering apologies. He fed the boy some dinner that was brought up, gave him a fair amount of money, and sent him on his way.

Sherlock then lay in his bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

_John…_

**October 12, 2012** _(SECURITY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson)_

It's not really worth writing in this anymore.

**(2 Comments)**

_**Ella Thompson **_(November 1st)

_You were doing really well, John. I think it was helping you a lot._

_**John Watson** _(November 3rd)

_It wasn't helping._

**October 30th, 2012** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson)_

Okay, Ella, I'll have a second go at it, then, okay? Today I went to the store for milk and my card got declined. When I got home there was nothing on the telly. I've had a head ache all day, and I've been having trouble sleeping. You know all this already.

_**(3 Comments)**_

_**Ella Thompson**_ (November 28th)

_You missed your last two appointments. Are you going to be coming to the next one? I haven't heard from you. Are you alright, John?_

_**John Watson**_ (December 11th, 10:15)

_Sorry, I was busy. Now the holidays are coming up. I'll let you know when I'll be able to meet with you again._

_**Ella Thompson**_ (December 11th, 17:37)

_Please call me back as soon as you can._

Sherlock was in a coffee house in Seattle. Lovely city, Seattle was. Rainy enough to ease his homesickness for London. He walked up the barista, and said in a low voice. "Coffee, black." The girl giggled, and when he handed is cup it had her number on it. Perfect, he could use it to hack into her phone.

Her boyfriend just happened to be a notorious hacker, selling America's military secrets to various countries. Or, if you were powerful enough, private citizens. He logged onto John's blog, and burned his tongue drinking the coffee, as he read in fascination.

Hopefully the holidays would cheer John up a bit. John was so cheerful during the holidays. Sherlock had been planning to give John a set of engraved dog tags with the anniversary of the day they met on them for Christmas. Now he would never get the chance.

**January 6th, 2013 (10:03)** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: visible to E. Thompson) __(SECURITY SETTINGS: PRIVATE, as of 19:22)_

It's Sherlock's Birthday today... I know he wouldn't want me to do anything for it. That kind of thing never mattered very much to him. But he's not here to tell me it's just any other day, so I think I might do something to celebrate.

Sherlock Holmes was anxious. He had forgotten what day it was; he was busy trying to catch a flight to Bangkok. During his Layover in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia he had used his phone to log onto the internet. When he saw the entry, he realised it was his birthday. It was so like John to remember when he hadn't…

Sherlock took out a small moleskine and began to write in black ballpoint pen. .. His words and letters alternating between a spiderlike scrawl and large block letters,

I would have celebrated with you John. Would have complained, and whined, and thrown a fit about it, but I would have loved what you did for me anyways.

He put away the notebook.

**January 6th, 2013** **(19:23)** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

Cheers to yuo, Mate! Wish you were here to celwbrate with me!

As Sherlock waited in line to board his flight after the long tedious layover, he took another look at his temporary smart phone, reading the newest entry with a heavy heart.

When he got aboard the plane, he pulled out the booklet and added a new entry onto the empty lines.

Cheers, John. So do I luv.

I wish I was there, too.

**January 6th, 2013 (24:00)** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

I vsant fguckin do this anymore./

Sherlock Holmes logged into the site from his phone as he wandered through the streets, checking it as he walked. He knew he should be focusing on other things, more important things. But he just needed to see, to be sure. When he read the newest entry he barely had time to take it in, before he had caught sight of his target out of the corner of his eye, and was off.

**January 6th, 2013 (01:12)** _(Edited version of previous post)_

I cannot so this anyumore.

It had taken less than 10 minutes for him to apprehend his newest lead in a small alley beside a market. It had taken less than 60 seconds for him to talk. It was barely fair, Sherlock thought to himself. He'd been so bored on the plane flight; he had hoped for a little more to huffed, and gave the man a swift kick in the side, then sat down on his chest hard so he couldn't get up. He pulled out his phone and took another look at his companion's blog. The feeling in his chest was distracting, he couldn't let it go. He just had to check.

No new entry. He'd only edited it, and not very well. That bothered him. Though, he had little time to address it. His hostage had begun coughing up an awful lot of blood.

**January 6th, 2013 (01:14)** _(Edited version of previous post)_

I knsow I was never much od a help on your cases, bus I miss them so muc h… I felt like l was always

telling you what you alrewady know…

You never really beleved in heaven or anything/

But if there was one, I think, it would be you and me… you solving crimes and me bloggind about it.

Its stupid… but I want tht again../..

Well, at least he had gotten his information, Sherlock thought to himself, because this was one very dead hostage.

He leaned over to look at him, and heard his own voice come out of his mouth like distant music on the breeze, "So, what do you think?" He pauses, waits, and then continues, awkwardly. He's pretty sure he only imagined a diagnosis of the body being uttered to him, John's voice, he guesses, but he pushes on anyway.

"Well, obviously somebody got to him before I did!" He answers, swallowing hard, then standing up and pushing the body onto its side with his toe, "Clearly he's been beaten! But by who?" He pauses pensively. He's talking to someone who will never respond. Waiting for an answer, a remark."Look at the bruises!" He huffs, waiting again, "Fists, knuckles. God... Look at them." He bends down, "If he'd been beaten because someone wanted him dead - you'd see more than that. Kicks, blunt objects! But there's nothing like that..."

He paces, realising now that he's thinking out loud. It helps him. But it hurts in his chest to do it, and he is struggling to push it out."Nothing below the belt. Nothing but knuckle marks. Whoever did this fights fair..." He mutters, and then walks out of the alley to follow the lead he felt he'd barely earned.

He pulled out his phone to check for any new news on the blog. This was getting scary.

Sherlock Holmes did not like being scared.

**January 6th, 2013 (01:16)** _(Edited version of previous post)_

I can't fudking do this anymor3.

Sherlock fires an angry text to his brother when he reads the next version of his blog entry about 5 minutes later, he is on the way to his next lead, and is growing tired, hungry. He's vaguely aware of some voice telling him he has to eat. The voice sounds like John. He ignores it. He always does.

[You promised you'd keep an eye on him. SH]

[He is being monitored. MH]

[You text now? Is your mouth too full of cake to talk? SH]

[Check his blog, you moron. SH]

Sherlock gets no further response from his brother.

**January 6th, 2013 (24:31)**_ (Edited, final, version of previous post)_

I can't fucking do this anymore.

Sherlock pulls out his phone as he checks into a dingy hotel. His lead had led him to this place, and he would wait here for as long as he needed.

He reads the newly edited version of the post, and of all the versions he had read today this one scared him the most. It was perfectly written. Every key had been pressed exactly, despite John's inebriation. He had put care into this. He had focused for the past 15 minutes on making this one count. This was his final version. Sherlock Holmes knew one when he saw it.

This time he wasn't just scared. He was desperate. He never even noticed it when he took out his notebook one last time that day, scrawled a tearful note, then prayed for enough reception to yell at Mycroft until his ears bled.

_Yes, you can John. For me._

**January 8, 2013**_ (PRIVACY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson)_

So, I'm on suicide watch. Ella, since you asked me to write this bloody entry, I'll reiterate for you what I told you earlier today. I am not actually suicidal.

I'm lucky to be alive, certainly. I'm extremely grateful for that. But I guess what actually happened was I had had some pints the other day and when I got home I guess I had a bit of a panic attack. I'd had some Valium around my flat. I think it had been prescribed to me when I first got back from Afghanistan, and I was getting a lot of them. Anyway, I decided to take some, and the dosage and the alcohol had an adverse reaction.

I admit that it was stupid, I realise that now... but I wasn't trying to kill myself or anything. I'm really not like that.

The crazy thing is, I would have died if one of my neighbors hadn't called the police about it. I must have been yelling or something without realising it; because that's the only way I think anybody could have known... I'd locked myself in my apartment most of the evening, and I'm usually pretty quiet and keep to myself. Nobody would even have noticed anything was off.

I am so lucky for that.

I would thank them if I knew who they were, but the call came in from an anonymous source. Really odd. I'd really like them to know how grateful I am for them and what they did. I want them to know how much I owe them. Whoever did that truly saved my life, truly... and I wish to God they would just show themselves so that I could thank them. Whoever you are, you can trust me. I won't be angry.

I promise I won't.

Sherlock had dropped the lead in Bangkok. He had explained it away in his mind as necessary. This boxer who fought fair, this dangerous assassin, this man who had once leveled a sniper at his heart, his head. Everything. This was less important than a flight back to London. And once Sherlock had finished pacing around the room, hovering – stopping only to read and re-read the latest blog entry, he sat down and scrawled wildly in his moleskine.

_I'm in London. I'm staying at a shitty inn. God luv, I'm so close to you. I came back because your last post scared me. The anonymous source was Mycroft, luv. I had a talk with him. Part of the deal we made was that he'd be keeping a careful eye on you. He obviously bloody hasn't been. I ripped him a new one for that. You won't read this letter, John. It's killing me. I'm not a thousand meters away, but I can't see you. _

_I'lll be heading back to Iraq tonight. This is my toughest lead yet. But it's all for you. It's to keep you safe. _

_That's my dream John. My dream to have this world safe for you. Safe for us again. My dream for us to be together, safe, loving. Kids with us, grandkids if we're lucky. My dream John. And I do not give you permission to fuck with my dream! _

_You don't have my permission to fuck up the world I'm trying to create by taking yourself, the most important part, out of the equation. No bloody way. So don't be mad at Mycroft. He's doing it for you, but more for me, because if you're out of the equation, _

_I will be as well. _

He wrote down the name of the man he had killed in Bangkok after that, noted a few incidentals, shut the notebook, and slid it safely into his pocket.

**January 9th, 2013** _(SECURITY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson)_

Some people have been visiting me at the hospital. I'm not sure what to tell them anymore, honestly.

Everyone keeps looking at me like they pity me. Nobody believes me when I tell them what happened.

Really mad right now.

**January 10th, 2013** (SECURITY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson)

Got discharged today. It's weird, but I'm actually glad to be home.

**_(2 Comments)_**

**_Ella Thompson_** (January 10th)

_That's good John. I'm glad to hear you're feeling better. Will I see you at your appointment on the 15th?_

**_John Watson_** (January 11th)

_Yeah. I'll be there. Thanks, Ella. :)_

**January 29, 2013** _(SECURITY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson)_

Since Ella let me cancel my appointment for today, she told me it might help me if I wrote you a letter to tell you some things I'd been doing and thinking, how I'd been getting on. You know, all the things I want to say to you, to get them out once and for all. She said that would help, considering what day it is. She also told me that after what happened on your birthday I didn't have a choice (I do keep telling her she's wrong about all that, but whatever). So here it goes.

Letter to a dead man.

I visited you today. I mean, I visited your grave. I brought you my dog tags. Part of them, anyway.

I left you one of them, and I kept the other one. I'm not really sure what it's supposed to mean, but I guess it's nice to feel you have something of mine. I'm taking good care of your skull, after all.

I miss you every day.

**January 30th, 2013** _(SECURITY SETTING: Mostly Visible to Ella Thompson, portions of it have been added into a separate PRIVATE post)_

Trying again. Ella called me to tell me that wasn't enough. I thought it was pretty good, but okay.

I hate you so much. Not a day goes by when I'm not angry with you. Angry about things you did when you were here. Angry about things I imagine you did now that you're gone. Everything just makes me so angry, and I hate it.

And then I think maybe I'm not really that angry... and I think maybe I wouldn't have any right to be even if I was...

It feels so ridiculous to pretend I'm taking to you, to pretend you'll ever read this when I know in the back of my mind that you won't. I entertain the idea that this is all just... fake... part of some big elaborate plan you have, that you'll be back. But I know in the back of my mind that I need to start acting and thinking like that's not true. I know it's not... It made me feel better to imagine that it was. But I need to start being honest with myself.

**_[Set to Private:]_**

It's been over 6 months and I am just now realising how many lies I've been telling myself.

Sherlock, I am so, so sorry for what I put you through.

I have never loved anyone as much as I love you.

I should have told you when you were alive, but I didn't. Because I am a bloody coward, and a liar, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry because now you'll never get to hear it from me... You'll never hear anything ever again. And I really need to start being honest with myself about it.

Sherlock was sitting in the gutter. It was dark, and the only thing that offered any light was the cell phone he had stolen from the Australian man he had killed. He logged onto John's blog, and began reading. He stopped when John mentioned his grave, though. This was too pure to be reading in some waste covered gutter. He smashed the phone to the ground, and made his way to the hotel.

Once he was inside, he logged on again, and read through it. He was crying by the end, and with a shaky hand he pulled out a paper and a pen, and composed another letter he would never send.

_Dearest John, _

_I'm cold, luv. I miss the way you warmed my hands up in your rough ones. No fur-lined gloves could compare to those calloused hands. _

_I can picture the dog tag, luv. Picture it hanging all by its lonesome. It's going to get rusty. You know how the London air is. You worked too hard to earn that tag to leave it at a gravestone. Take it home, polish it, wear it. My grave doesn't deserve it. _

_Thank you for it, though. I love the gesture. _

_You have every right to be angry with me, John. I'm angry with myself too. I'm angry that I let him get the best of me, I angry that I am not there with you, I'm angry that your were hospital, and I couldn't visit you. Should have been by your bedside the entire time, luv. I'm angry because I didn't keep you safe. _

_If only you knew..._

_John, don't ever be sorry for what you put me through, for what you gave me, for what you blessed me with. You are the strong one, the one who I looked to when all else looked bleak. It would have been so easy to give in, John. To the rumors, and the scandal, and to Moriarty. You, my brave soldier, were the only thing that kept me strong. I love you more that I can say, or think, or write. If I was given a choice between my mind palace and you, I'd pick you. I'd pick you every time, John. I love you. _

_Stay safe for me. Stay in the equation. Keep my dream alive._

_All the love I possess, _

_Sherlock Holmes _

He then pulled out a lighter, and watched it burn. It burned the tip of his forefinger as it went up in flames.

He felt no pain.

**February 10th, 2013** _(PRIVACY SETTING: Visible to Ella Thompson, set to PRIVATE on Feb. 13th)_

I think I might start dating again. I dunno. It's kind of hard for me to think about.

**_(2 Comments)_**

**_Ella Thompson_ **(February 13th)

_That's excellent, John. I thought we had a break through yesterday._

_**John Watson** _(February 13th)

_Sorry, Ella, meant to set that one to private._

**February 22nd** _(PRIVACY SETTING: Visible to Ella Thompson)_

Finally got out of the flat last night, met up with Bill Murrey for drinks... Met somebody, Bill thinks I won't call her. I'm still deciding. But I might do it just to prove him wrong. The git.

**March 4th, 2013, 10:33** _(PRIVACY SETTINGS: Visible to Ella Thompson)_

Got a call from an old friend today. We're meeting for coffee.

**March 4th, 2013, 16:01** _(PRIVACY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

I met Mary Morstan for coffee. She asked me to help her out with something that'd happened to her. She said somebody'd started sending her pearls, and sending her anonymous texts and things. She was hoping I could help because I used to be a detective.

I told her I didn't do that anymore, and I probably wouldn't be of much help... I don't know what to do, I want to help her out. But I'm not the world's only consulting detective, am I?

Sherlock was wounded. Badly. He had a 6 inch gash in his side, and an inch deep cut on his bicep. He should have known the Arabic sheik was a master in the art of throwing knives pretty bloody accurately.

He bandaged himself up, trying not to picture how a certain doctor's lightly tanned hands would look against the stark white bandages, how gentle he would be, how soothing.

Fuck.

Sherlock finished up, and sat down in his tent and pulled out the sheik's laptop. As he read through the words, he felt empty. He felt like the sociopath he was long ago. These words should mean something.

They just didn't.

Sherlock ran outside and sat in the sand, mindless of how the scorching sun would affect his English skin.

He began to write in the sand, using his finger. The grainy texture of the sand bringing him slowly back to reality.

_You are dating. You have moved. You have forgotten. _

_Thank god you are dating. It was about time you moved on. I'm not much to remember anyway. _

_You're going on a real date. With her. Again. _

_Is she always your rebound from me?_

Sherlock crossed that last line out.

_She gets something I will never get. You've moved on, John. Decided I wasn't worth the wait. Decided my dream wasn't worth fighting for. You've become a variable in a whole other equation. _

_Erased me._

_So why am I still fighting?_

Sherlock looked at the words carved into the sand. Stared at them until they were burned into the back

of his mind. Looked until it became dark. And then the wind came. It Rescultped the sand until it was smooth, like the words had never even been there. Never made a dent, nor an impact. It's like they didn't even matter.

Erased the words.

Erased Sherlock Holmes.

**March 25th, 2013** _(PRIVACY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson)_

I'm going to have to work out what just happened. Afraid I hadn't been much help. But I'll try to work it out anyway. I just need some time.

**April 14th, 2013** _(PRIVACY SETTINGS: Visible to E. Thompson and M. Morstan [new user])_

I don't want to go too much into what happened, because, frankly, I wasn't there for much of it. But it was a whole lot to take in. There was a child involved, which was completely mad. Can't believe a child could have been involved in something like that. A whole big tale of revenge and a lost treasure.

Complete madness. If I were writing it out for my old blog, I might include more. But suffice to say it was incredible, and I just wish I could have been more involved.

_**(3 Comments)**_

_**Mary Morstan**_ (April 16th)

_You were a great help, John. I can't thank you enough._

**John Watson** (April 16th)

_Are we still on for coffee tomorrow, then?_

**Mary Morstan** (April 16th)

_Absolutely. Answer your phone!_

Sherlock was tired. So bloody tired. He had messed up, slipped up, fucked up. He was tied to a chair in a metal room. It had taken him 4 hours to saw through the binding ropes on his hands using only a bobby pin. He then proceeded to pick the lock (not electronic? He couldn't help but feel offended) and retrieve his Glock ( Left with the ammo inside? Insult to injury.) And ran down the hallway, shooting the 4 guards that were in his way. He finally got out, and found himself in the tunnels of the Vatican City.

He got himself out, and the first thing he did when he got back to civilization was find a cafe.

With Wi-Fi. And cake-pops. He had a fondness for them.

Sherlock read through the new post, feeling both pride and bitterness arise in his throat. That could just be the dark roast, though. He stepped outside with his coffee, a napkin, and a pen; he sat on a bench, and began to write.

_God John, tell me everything. Who did it? Who did you suspect? How did you know it was the child? _

_I'm so fucking proud of you, John. Glad I could teach you something. You taught me to be kind, and compassionate, and empathetic. Didn't do me a whole lot of good, but it was the thought that counts. _

_She has your number, John? Does she call, or text? Do you text her with the same number you texted me? Do you fall asleep to the sound of her steady breathes? Your breaths were always steady, John. _

_I miss you. More than I can fucking say. Every blonde man I see looks like you. Every man walking around in khakis hurts me. I almost fucked someone against their will in Siberia because they looked like you, John. Compared to that I suppose this thing with Mary is relatively healthy. Maybe._

_I am happy for you. That's what hurts the most. Hope her dream is like mine. Similar in that we both want you safe, and happy. _

_I would have tried to make you happy, luv. He ruined it all, John. I was happy; so where you. He couldn't stand it, and he had to blot it out. Muck it up. Stain the only pure and good thing I had in my life. You. _

_I love you. Don't show her my skull. She'd be dull enough to make a Yorrik joke. My skull deserves better. So do you. _

Sherlock looked at his cup. The sweet coffee was gone, all that was left were bitter grinds. He poured those onto the words, blotting them out.

They stained everything.

He threw the napkin away, and walked on.

**April 29th,2013** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

Doing really well, all things considered.

**May 2nd, 2013** _(Visible to E. Thompson and Jacob Sowersby)_

Been working with Jacob Sowersby of all people. We're putting together a website for anybody who's got questions about Sherlock Holmes.

**May 5th, 2013**_ (Visible to E. Thompson and Jacob Sowersby)_

I am ashamed to admit I haven't been very vocal about any of this lately... but it looks like there's a pretty dedicated crowd of people trying to clear his name. He's touched so many people, I just hope everyone else will see that.

Anyway, I won't stop believing in him. And I won't stop working to help him.

_**(2 comments)**_

_**Jacob Sowersby**_

_Glad for your help, mate! I believe in Sherlock Holmes!_

**John Watson**

_It'll be fine! Thanks for your help!_

**May 15th, 2013 **_(PRIVACY SETTINGS: PRIVATE)_

Woeking on my left hook apparently. Had to punch someone in the face the other day. And the day befor that, and the day before that/

"Your left hook was always your weakest point. Keep your elbow in, and make sure your thumb is wrapped around your fist." Sherlock says.

He is speaking to the screen to the computer. After a few moments, he goes to the 'con artist who was really and artist. The man was handcuffed to his easel. "Now, this is what I want you to sketch." Sherlock closes his eyes, and begins to describe John from his memory. When the artist is done, he looks at it. It's beautiful; a black and white charcoal sketch of the way John looked like after they had shagged; euphoric.

Sherlock smiled, stepped behind the man, and raised his gun to the back of the artist's head.

"He's even more gorgeous in person." He said calmly, and pulled the trigger

The blood was vivid against the black and white.

**June 15, 2013** _(Visible E. Thompson and to M. Morstan)_

Talked to Ella about only seeing her once a month. Doing really well. Doing really, really well.

**_(2 comments)_**

**_Mary Morstan_** (June 15th, 13:01)

_I love you._

_**John Watson** _(June 15th, 13:22)

_I Love you, too._

Sherlock began to cry. He just sat down on his creaky, dilapidated bed, and began to cry. All of John's sweet words and reassurances, even when he was alive, meant nothing. He took out a pen and began to write, tears blotting the paper.

_You fucking git! I had to fucking die to get you to say you cared, and one supportive post later you admit it to her?_

_You went back into her arms?_

_Fuck you John. This isn't for you anymore. It's for Hudson, and Molly, and Lestrade. You're out of the fucking equation._

Sherlock tore up the paper, and threw it to the ground.

He then reached for the now familiar white power, and the card he use to make the pretty lines.

**July 5th, 2013** _(PRIVATE, posted from mobile)_

OI think I've been really good about staying sober, but tonight I was out with the rugbt boys. And

somebosy said something to me about him. I'm working on my riught hook too!

Lestrade is bein g pretty kind about me punching people every so often. But I think he's had enough of

it. So I'm spending the night at th e sta tion, in a cell, you kow.

I;m so drubk and I don't even care. I;'s so worth it for the look oin his face. God, I will never stop standing uo for him, I swear. I belive in him forever.

Sherlock Holmes had all but lost hope, and this newest post wasn't helping. Getting clean wasn't a concern to him. It was the most coherent thing he could think to do at this point. And when he found himself logging into John's web page, he was almost laughing with bitter resentment.

He pulled out a pen and began writing feverishly in his moleskine, oblivious to the security breach and nonsense alike.

_Dear John, if I should call you that,_

_You always fight for me? Do you know how fucking hard I fought for you? Am still fighting for you? To get the blokes to stop the gossip about you, an invalid, working on cases down at the yard? _

_Or how hard _

_I fought to get you to be with me? I worked, and you gave me nothing. I gave everything, and you denied everything._

_Let's see how much fun she's going to have bailing you out! Let us see you deny that._

_Don't defend me anymore John. It's not your place anymore. Defend your new lover, before the press goes after her too. _

_No Longer Yours to Believe In,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

**July 6th, 2013** _(PRIVATE)_

I'm so knackered...

**July 7th, 2013**_ (Visible to Ella but later set to Private)_

Mary and I had a row about the other night.

She was really upset... So was I... We both said some things we didn't mean. She said I was still angry. I told her she was just like everybody else – that Sherlock wouldn't have cared about a night in a cell.

She asked if she was supposed to be happy about it, so I said, yeah, because he would have been. She left after that. After calling me an alcoholic, anyway. That really hurt. Anyway, I feel awful about the whole thing… I keep trying to call her to apologise, but she won't answer and she's not returning my calls.I'm such a fucking arse… I'm afraid I really fucked up…

Happy Birthday to me.

Sherlock sat in a cold cell in Austria. The body of his latest victory lying next to him. He had hacked the prison system's wifi code, and was on his temporary phone, checking John's blog. Blood dropped on the screen, not his own, as he read.

Sherlock smirked as he read, and lay down on the wooden bench. "I'm in a cell too, luv. Except I chose to be. And it's not my cell." Sherlock addressed the wall, as if John could hear through stone and dirt and thousands of miles.

"He picked it up, you know." Sherlock said to the corpse. "Several studies have shown alcoholism to be genetic. I suppose it was only a matter of time..." Sherlock trailed off, wiping blood off his forehead with the back of his hand. In the dim light it looked black.

"I would have tried to help him. He's wrong though, I'd be mad as well. Mad at his dullness. He's too smart to get put in a cell." Sherlock laughed mirthlessly.

"She's wrong for him. Then again, so was I." Sherlock tucked the phone into his pocket, took one last look at the dead mobster, and walked out.

**July 19th, 2013** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

So, Mary took me back finally... She said she'd only do it if I quit drinking, completely. I don't know if it's as big a problem as she's making it out to be. But to be fair, that's how alcoholics talk - I know.

Anyway, like she said, it's not like it's a bad idea, in general. It couldn't hurt, and if she's worried about it, then I'll do it.

To be honest, I'd have agreed to any demand she could have made. I'd have kidnapped the queen if she'd asked me to. I'm just glad she can forgive me.

**October 1st, 2013** _(Visible to Ella Thompson and Mary Morstan, but set to private October 4th)_

Life is pretty boring lately. I still get panic attacks sometimes, but Mary's been a great help when they happen. The nightmares are still bad, but I'm hoping once I move in with Mary she can help more with those as well.

That woman is an absolute saint.

_**(6 Comments)**_

_**Ella Thompson**_ (October 2)

_Thank you for posting again, John. Keep it up. :) I'll see you next month._

_**Mary Morstan**_ (October 3)

_We'll get through this, luv. :) I'm excited about the move._

_**John Watson**_ (October 3)

_We might want to work out some different pet names. I have some suggestions; if you're interested. I was thinking maybe "Smoopy Doopkins" or "Snuggley wuggle" might be good. If you're not into those we could just go with "Tiger." I think that's fitting. I'm open to suggestions, what do you think?_

**_Mary Morstan_** (October 3)

_LOL, John. You don't have to hide things from me, you know? If "luv" is what he called you, it's fine, I won't use it. I just wish you'd told me sooner._

_**John Watson** _(October 4)

_Please, Mary. Ella can see this._

_**Mary Morstan**_ (October 4)

_Sorry, John. I didn't realise she didn't know about him. We'll talk tonight._

Sherlock frowned, and sank down into his chair. A girl from the brothel he just busted up was working furiously trying to get him hard, get him ready. She didn't stroke like John did, wasn't firm like he was, didn't care like he did.

He didn't care, he just stared at the laptop until the girl cursed at him in Portuguese and left.

He opened up a new document, and began to type.

_Dear John,_

_I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring your nightmares back. You were doing so well, luv. You were getting better. Now you seem worse than before. _

_Please stop drinking John. Don't you remember the 'effect of ethanol on pig liver' experiment I showed you? You are meant to live a long, happy life. I'm still working to make sure that you do. _

_And kidnapping the queen seems like overcompensating doesn't it? I'm sure the Duchess of Wales would suffice as a solid apology. _

_If she is a saint, John, does that make me the devil? _

_Tiger is fitting, luv. Want to know why? Because tigers are fierce. Brave. Loyal. And they lay their lives on the line for their mates, and their cubs. Rather fitting. _

_Smoopy Doopy works as well, I guess._

_So you told her about us, John? Is it no longer sacred? Not sacrilegious to speak my name, to say wha we were, to mention what we did? _

_If I knew my death would make you open about it, I would've jumped long ago. _

_I miss you. Stay safe. Worship the saint, and give her a good one for me. I love you, tiger. _

_With everything I have, _

_Sherlock_

He then opened the window of the penthouse suite, and tossed the laptop out.

It shattered on the pavement.

**November 9, 2013** _(SECURITY SETTING: Visible to E. Thompson, J. Sowersby, and M. Morstan)_

I've been really busy with the website, so I haven't been updating much here. Sorry, Ella. This is more important. The Science of Sherlock Holmes Here's the site. Jacob's been working really hard on it.

We've been going through some of Sherlock's cases and debunking the theories people have about him.

Some of them aren't even that hard to do, the theories these people have are completely mad. It's a wonder anybody believes this rubbish at all.

**November 9th, 2013** _(Visible to Ella, Jacob, and Mary)_

Also, been meeting with other people who believe in him for the case histories. Mostly people who he'd helped with cases. They think he was a right arse, but they still want to help. It's good to know some people still care about the truth.

**_(2 comments)_**

**_Jacob Sowersby_ **(November 9)

_You should make this blog public again, mate!_

**_John Watson_** (November 22)

_Your website is more important now, Jacob. Call me. I've got some news about the one with the Racehorse and the dog you might want to add to the site._

Sherlock finished snorting his third line of cocaine. He shuddered, and rolled his head back. The special Parisian blend never failed him. He slid down the wall of the grungy hotel, and stared at the next three lines.

They would end him.

He was in tune with what his body could handle, and he knew that it would handle three more lines of the special Paris blend.

It got worse every time he got close to London. He could handle far off cases and hits, but anywhere near good old London sent him reeling. He got up with shaky legs to snort another line of the special Paris blend.

He had done enough for John. John was happy, safe, in another relationship. There was no point in his return. It would only send John into more fits, more pain. He should save himself the trouble and end it by the special Paris blend.

His eyes flashed to the screen on his computer. There was a new blog entry. Sherlock read through it frantically, wired up on the special Paris blend.

God. John was a bloody twat. A Prick. A Prat. How dare he still believe in Sherlock? How dare he waste time trying to prove he wasn't a fraud? How dare he make Sherlock feel like this! Nauseous, guilty, tired, hopeful? And suddenly disinterested in the special Paris blend.

Sherlock began to cry. Curse. Yell. Bless. Sherlock went to the loo, and flushed into the toilet the remaining lines of the special Paris blend.

Sherlock wanted to get home. Get home to John. Berate him for wasting his time. Mock him for his naive hopes. And thank him, for once again saving his life. Saving him from the special Paris blend.

Even though he was dead. Sherlock loved the irony.

He didn't think John would.

**December 24th, 2013** _(Visible to E. Thompson and M. Morstan)_

Mary and I are throwing a Christmas party tomorrow, also it's kind of a housewarming party for me, at least. Her early Christmas gift to me was a key to her flat. I got her tickets to see The Nutcracker.

So, you know, she gets me as a flatmate, and I had to sit through a ballet.

So, I'd say we're even in terms of sacrifice.

Actually, it's nice to be living with somebody else again. I'd forgotten how nice it is to have someone to come home to.

Things are finally looking up.

_**(5 Comments)**_

_**Mary Morstan** _(December 24, 18:30)

_I thought you liked the ballet!_

_**John Watson**_ (December 24, 18:47)

_Shh... Mary, They take away your Man Card if They find out. Honestly though, it wasn't bad, just not my taste, I guess._

_**Mary Morstan**_ (December 24, 19:03)

_LOL, next time I'll take one of my girlfriends. Is there any way for me to make it up to you?_

_**John Watson**_ (December 24, 19:55)

_Well, there's a Die Hard Marathon on the telly for Christmas Eve._

**_Mary Morstan_** (December 24th, 20:10)

_I'll make some popcorn. I think you might owe me one now, though. ;)_

**December 26th, 2013** _(Visible to E. Thompson and M. Morstan)_

It was really great to see people yesterday. Mrs Hudson made it out, I was afraid she might not be able to come. It was really good to see her again. I haven't seen her in months. It made me a little sad, too, I guess. I dunno.

Bill and his wife came too. He kept asking me when me when I was going to make an honest woman out of Mary. What a git. Anyway, other than that it was mostly Mary's friends, but I like them.

So I think the party was a success. It's the best Christmas I've had in a long time. I'm chuffed!

**_(1 Comment)_**

**_Mary Morstan_ **(December 27th)

_Bill is a very smart man. LOL_

_Dear John,_

_Christmas isn't celebrated really here in Syria. That's part of the reason I came here. I can't stand to see anymore. Anymore gifts in windows I know you'd love. Anymore eggnog, which you'd add just a bit too much liquor to. Anymore mistletoe, which I will never get to kiss you under. _

_John, you lost your "man card" the day you allowed Angelo to set that romantic candle between us. Suck it up, and enjoy the goddamn ballet._

_Did you corrupt the saint? Taint her? Spoil her? Because if so, Bill is right. You should make an honest women out of her. The parlor maids and the butler at the manor will gossip if you don't. _

_I miss you, John. It seems like it's gotten easier for you. It hasn't for me. I don't know how intelligent Bill is. But I guess he seems like a nice chap. _

_Please don't do anything drastic, John. I'll be home soon, luv. _

_I promise._

_I can't spend another Christmas away from you. Can't write another letter you won't read as a Christmas present. _

_Are my dog tags still hanging there? It's odd to think of one's grave on Christmas. I've always been a bit odd, though. Wouldn't you say?_

_She's a better flatmate, isn't she?_

_Happy Christmas John, and many more. _

_Love, always,_

_Your Sherlock_

**January 6th, 2014** _(PRIVATE)_

Mary took the day off work to be with me. She knows today is hard for me. She wanted to be there, she said we could do whatever I wanted. We watched a movie, I didn't pay much attention, but at least I was distracted.

I finally showed her Sherlock's Skull. I'd kept it hidden away. It is kind of creepy, after all. She said she would nick another one from her prop department so it would have a friend. I'm not really sure how Sherlock would feel about all that, but it's such a sweet gesture - and I couldn't help but laugh.

She asked me if I wanted to visit him... I didn't at first, but at the end of the day we did go. My dog tags are still there. I'm glad nobody cleaned them off. Sometimes they do that...

It felt odd to bring her there. She's never been to visit him. Well, it felt weird... but I'm still glad she was there.

Honestly, I'm so grateful for her being here right now. A year ago I was at my worst. Right now I'm fine. I still miss him, every day. But I think I'm fine.

Sherlock stood far off in the distance, well hidden behind a grove of trees. He watched as Mary and John approached his grave. It took every ounce of self-discipline, and Mycroft's furious texts, to keep him from revealing himself.

He watched as John broke down, and it broke his scarred heart. He saw the saint support him, and he felt immense gratitude for the one who had taken his place. He went back to the inn after that, and got drunk. Read John's blog. Ordered a blonde whore. The whore had a pixie cut and blue eyes. She was still too different. He sent her away in tears. Then wrote "Cheers John. I miss you too" on his palm in black ink, before washing it away in the cracked porcelain sink.

**January 29th, , 2014**_ (PRIVATE)_

Mary is having surgery today. What a happy coincidence.

**March 31, 2014** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

Got a job at at London Wilbeck Hospital. It's a little bit under my skill level, but it pays well.

Anyway, it's about time I started thinking about the future. I can't keep up on an army pension forever.

**April 15th, 2014** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

It's odd to be working at a hospital again. It's boring work. But I guess it pays the bills.

On an unrelated note, I've been having a lot of nightmares lately. Dunno what they mean, but I'm really tired. Some decent sleep would be nice.

**June 7th, 2014** _(Visible to E. Thompson and J. Sowersby)_

The hit count on Jacob's site reached a record high today. I think we're finally getting noticed!

**_(1 Comment)_**

**_Jacob Sowersby_**

_Oh my god! I'm so excited! Update more!_

Sherlock smiled as he read the blog update. He didn't give a fuck about the hit count, but the fact that John had a job was good. The nightmares were bad, but maybe the saint could help with those.

"Hello? Aren't you going to kill me?" Said his Russian hostage. The boy was no older than 17, but had committed more crimes that a small sect of the mob.

"No. First you're going to tell me how you managed to reroute the city sewage line into President Putin's bathtub. Then I'm going to release you to the police." Sherlock explained calmly, and sat down on the chair across from the boy.

The boy gave him a toothy smile. "Simple, really."

**August 6th, 2014** _(Visble to E. Thompson)_

I haven't had a panic attack in a really long time. I have trouble sleeping a lot. My shoulder hurts sometimes, but I know it's all in my head. Right, Ella?

_**(1 Comment)**_

_**Ella Thompson**_ (August 7th)

_You don't have to post on here just because of me, John. You've been doing really well. I think it's fine. I'll see you next month._

Sherlock flipped the lapel of his coat up. It was cold, dreary, and the London fog was thick and gloomy.

Sherlock loved it.

This hit was going to be a tough one. He didn't take much pleasure in this hunt, especially when it came down to brass tacks; killing. But this one he was looking forward to. The young girl who had become a part of Moriarty's net, and therefore had to be taken down.

"I've missed you, handsome." She smirks, stopping suddenly on the sidewalk and turning back to him. "You look good for a dead bloke..."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and spun around to face her. She was just a kid last time they met, at least in his mind. She looks grown up. He shook off the sentimentality, and smiled.

"Thanks. I'm glad you think so." He put his hand in his coat pocket. "How are things?" Sherlock mentions casually. He had been hoping to stop by John's flat before he came to see her. But his conscience wouldn't let him. This needed to be dealt with, and soon.

"Things'd be better if you weren't here to kill me." She smirks, her eyes darting down to his coat pocket. "I'd make a joke about what's in your pocket, but the wind chill from the WHOOSH of it going over your head would freeze me to death." She says, animating the 'whoosh' sound, then steps about a meter or two closer to him. "You should go check on your boyfriend. God knows I have."

"Thing would be better if your boss hadn't forced me to jump," Sherlock said with a bitter smile that froze in place when she mentioned John. He forced himself to keep a calm voice.

He stepped into a cafe, and handed her a menu, ordering coffee for them both. "You drink coffee now, right?"

"Is it my teeth?" She offers a swift toothy grin to display them, the faintest hint of coffee stains present. "Or is it the bags under my eyes?" She tilts her head and points to her eyes. "Easy enough, right?" She settles down into her seat quietly, and sips the coffee when it comes, drinking it black.

"Let's go somewhere else." She says, as though commanding it. "You don't want to go to your boyfriend's house. Let's go to mine." She shoots him a glance that is nothing if not seductive.

Sherlock laughs at her, not unkindly. "I've had that look shot at me from princesses and princes, contortionists and yoga instructors, homeless and the wealthy. I turned them all down." He leant forward, and dropped his voice to a stage whisper, "what makes you think I'll say yes to you?"

"Ah... Don't be silly. Of course you won't. You're still in love with that doctor." She pushes her coffee away from herself, done with it. "I'm just glad you know what the look I gave you even means...

Sherlock got up, tossed few pounds onto the table, and walked out, not waiting for her to follow.

"I'll be seeing you!" She calls after him, waving. "Eat something, String Bean! You look like a bloody corpse!" She blurts, finding this very funny. She doesn't get up to move. She pauses to fiddle with the syringe of strychnine in her pocket, wondering if maybe she should have stuck it in his leg under the table and gotten the whole thing over with then and there. She's sort of glad she didn't.

Sherlock continued his journey through London, smiling as familiar places came to view. Places he and John had been, places he'd missed. He wondered if he should stop by John and Mary's new apartment.

John would be happy to see him. Sherlock wasn't high, so that wasn't an issue. He went into an Internet café, to check up on John, so he could make a decision.

**December 23th, 2014** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

Mary and I are going to her friend's house for Christmas, so no party this year. I am going to visit Mrs

Hudson for new year's eve though. I haven't seen her since Christmas last year.

I got Mary a couple records of musicals she likes.

**January 1st, 2015**_ (Visible to E. Thompson and M. Morstan)_

Happy New year! Got big plans for this year. I think it's going to be a good one.

**_(1 Comment)_**

**_Mary Morstan_**

_Happy New Year, Sweetheart!  
_

Sherlock was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He had decided not to see John and Mary.

Instead he returned to his flat in Paris. He had only one more left to kill, Moran. This was another fun one. This was the man who threatened John. His John.

Well, not his anymore. Sherlock would need to prep for this, so he got on his computer and began to research the man.

**January 6th, 2015** _(PRIVATE)_

This is still a really hard day for me. It just reminds me how grateful I am for having known him, and then how much I miss him. Mary's still the only person I ever told about us. I feel numb when I think about him that way.

**January 29th, 2015** _(Visible to E. Thompson)_

I've been having a really bad time of it this month. January is like that for me, I guess. It'll pass. It better pass...

Sherlock was crouched low, in the closet of a Marriott hotel. Moran and a girl had just walked in on Sherlock's investigation, and were now, from what he could here, getting intimate. Sherlock held his

breathe, hoping they'd leave, and to his luck, they decided to step into the shower. Sherlock took a few photos of the man's files, and left. When he got back to his room, he logged onto John's blog and began reading. His heart ached when he was done, and he hoped the saint would help John through this. "I'll be home soon, luv. I promise." Sherlock said affectionately to the screen.

**April 3rd, 2015** _(Visible to E. Thompson, J. Sowersby, and M. Morstan)_

Jacob was on the telly the other day! I'm really glad he did it. His site is getting a lot of attention.

_**(2 Comments)**_

_**Jacob Sowersby**_ (April 3rd)

_THAT WAS COMPLETELY MENTAL!_

_**Mary Morstan** _(April 5th)

_Congratulations, Jacob! You were great!_

Sherlock turned the safety off, and said in a low voice, "Put your hands behind you head, and turn around." Three fucking years culminated in this moment. He just had to pull the trigger, and he could go home.

Home to John.

Sebastian Moran had known he was being followed, and he had been certain that it was finally his turn. He was in no hurry to go.

He raised his hands slowly. "He's still alive, you know. Even if you kill me now, he can rebuild it. He's already rebuilding it. Did you really think you were the only one who knew how disappear?"

He turns around to face the man finally. "He's better than you, though. All you can do is disappear. He knows how to come back again." He lets out a small laugh at that, it's harsh and bitter.

Sherlock tilted his head, curious. "I was there, Moran. I saw him put the gun to his mouth." Sherlock took a few steps forward, the old hardware floor creaking as he did. "Or are you still holding onto false hope?" He was being deliberatly cruel, as John's own faith in his return crossed his mind.

"And you jumped off a building and cracked your skill on the pavement. And yet, here /you/ are. Hope isn't informing me in this case. I know he will be back." The man narrows his eyes now, trying to find a weakness in his stance, gaze, something, a moment of distraction. He would not be the one dying tonight if he could help it.

Sherlock kept the gun at shoulder level, not letting his gaze drop. "What makes you so sure he'll be back?" Sherlock smiled. This was suppose to be impersonal, logical, calculated. But he couldn't help it.

"Hoping he hires you again? Or just hoping for another good shag?"

He gave a tight lipped smile. "Maybe both." His mouth twitches at that, "Maybe neither - He might not have me back. But I know he is alive, and still working against you. I have seen him. And that is all that I know." It's unclear whether he believes this himself, or if he's stalling, trying to get a reaction. Everyone has a weakness, it was just a matter of finding it.

**May 31, 2015** _(Visible to M. Morstan and E. Thompson)_

She said yes!

**_(1 comment)_**

**_Mary Morstan_**

_Of course I did, you git. Honestly, you were lucky I didn't say "About time!"_

~.~

Sherlock smirked, and lowered his gun. "I doubt that he's alive. But if you insist." Sherlock played with the magazine latch, looking angry. "Do you remember the night at the pool?" He keeps with voice level. He just needed a reason to pull the trigger, one John would accept.

"Smoke and mirrors." he nods, "I remember it. You were clever, but he's better." he lowers his hands at this point, taking a small step towards him.

Sherlock nodded. He frowned though, ad stayed in place. He was waiting for Moran to make his move.

"Sore spot?" he blinks at the silence, "he got the better of you?" he squints, then takes another step, they're very close now. "Oh, ohhhhhh- God, I get it now." his mannerisms shift slightly, he seems to have picked up some of Jim's mannerisms and in that moment does an almost perfect impression of him."Your short friend, the military man scared out of his wits." he laughs a little, "The one following you around everywhere like a puppy or something. That's why you bring this up, huh? I mentioned Jim... So... Got you got all wistful..."

"Not wistful." Sherlock said coldly, trying to back peddle. It's time like this he wish his sociopathic tendencies had stuck around. "And he's Jim to you now? How sweet. I wonder if he would you call him that, or if he would make you call him boss and sir, even now."

"I think he prefers Your Majesty, honestly." it's impossible to tell if he is being serious or not. "So what are we doing here, Sherlock Holmes?" his eyes dart to the gun. "Are we just going to get nostalgic? Talk about all the fun we used to have? The people we love? If you really are here to kill me, you're doing a rubbish job of it."

Sherlock eyes narrowed. "Do you want to die Moran? Because that can be arranged." Sherlock clicked the safety on, and dropped the gun. He then quickly raised his fist, to plant a much more satisfying blow on Moran's jaw.

The man clutches his face and spits a bloody tooth out into his hand, laughing hysterically. "Ahhh! Now we're talking!" He straightens up and swings a swift punch to his opponents body, keeping his face guarded from further attack. He seems to know what he's doing, and he's very much following the rules. This was now strategy vs strategy.

Sherlock blocked the blow using his left forearm, and stepped to the side, out of Moran's range. Moran would have to make the next more before Sherlock reciprocated.

Moran stands back a moment, then lunges in to aim another blow at the lanky man's torso, "You look taller when you're between cross hairs..." he remarks, as though this is all quite casual for him.

Sherlock absorbed the blow, feeling it know the wind out of him. He side stepped, and aimed a blow for Moran's shoulder.

Moran blocks this and steps to the side, "You're like a condor..." he breaths, "With a reach like that..." though it appears he doesn't want to give him a moment to breath, and comes back with a couple jabs aimed at his side, then one to his face, hoping to make contact somewhere. Sherlock is fast, but Moran isn't getting any slower.

Sherlock manages to block the jan aimed at his side, prepared from the last one. Moran gets a solid blow to his head through, and he ducks his head down, forced to use his height as a defend instead of an advantage. "Did he teach you to fight?" Sherlock taunts. He true to slam his left fist into Moran's jaw, before aiming for his solar places with his right.

That one lands hard in his temple, despite his effort to block it, and it crumples him to the floor. He holds himself up off the floor with a hand, the other cupping the side of his head. "You're better than me..." he manages in a daze, as he struggles to get back up on his feet. Finally he managed it, but looks dizzied. "But I'm not done yet..." he mutters, his mouth is bleeding really badly now, making him look completely like a lunatic. Hi puts his fists up and waits.

Sherlock looks at Moran with an odd mix of resentment and respect. He looks him in the ey and says, "But I am." Before opening his arms wide and waiting for the final blow. He just so tired of fighting, and he can't bear any more deaths. He waits for Moran to give the final blow.

He starts laughing at that, shaking his head. "You started it..." he sighs, "Maybe you should have shot me..." he arches an eyebrow, calculating his next move. "You fight very fair." he acknowledges. "It seems wrong somehow..." he stands there unmoving a few meters away, still waiting.

Sherlock shook his head slowy. "I'm tired, Moran. I want to be done. Go home" he lowers his arms to his side, ads toes forward toward Moran. "He's like my Jim, Moran." Sherlock says quite clearly. He really doesn't want to kill this man. He doesn't see the sniper anymore, he sees a man hoping his lover will come back. He sees his John.

"Ah, he'd said you were like that... Glad to have people like me out there..." he says, smirking a bit and pausing to wipe blood from his mouth, backing away as he speaks. "You go home to your soldier. Come back from the dead. You'll be seeing me again, both of us again." he grins wildly, turning finally for the exit, "Now isnt that going to be fun?" he breaks into a sprint and is gone.

Sherlock nearly collapses in relief. For a few seconds he is just standing in disbelief. He's done. He won. He got to go home. /John/. Not bothering to clean up, Sherlock makes his way to the nearest train station. The sweat mixes with the blood, and the blood with his tears.

Sherlock was on a train. He had ordered lagagna for lunch. It was the first time he had lasagna since he and John had made it years ago.

He could barely sit still, walking the isle, tapping his leg, bursting out in random bouts of laughter.

He would be arriving back to London in less than 15 minutes. He flipped open his phone, to log onto John's blog. He needed to make sure John was alright, and well enough to see Sherlock. His heart thudded heavily on his chest as he read the post, and he slowly closed his phone.

**'She said yes!' **

That phrase was burned into his skull. It tore through him as a smothered cry left his body. He layed his head down, and cried.

John was no longer his no longer his to love, to cherish, to worship. To marvel at when they were tangled in bed together. To hate when they argued. To protect when the world wanted to hurt him. /John/

The man announced their arrival at London, and Sherlock didn't move. Not until all the other passengers had left, not until his heart stopped punning, and not until the tears dried o his cheeks, leaving streaks through the blood. He then got off the train, and walked through the station into the London gloom.

It was all for nothing. In the end, Sherlock still lost his John.


End file.
